


strike the pose

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, fem!Charming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Nolan, though – a mystery wrapped in a question wrapped in a body to die for. The name is a puzzle in and out of itself, because nothing about that soft hair and velvet skin screams of androgynous. It fits her, still, even if Mary Margaret couldn’t explain why. It just does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strike the pose

Her finger taps the side of her computer’s mouse, a habit she developed over the years – when she is deep in thoughts, taping some rhythm with her nail, over and over again. She pouts slightly as her eyes scan the Wikipedia page opened on the large screen. Nothing but basic information – Nebraska born and raised; grew up on a farm; divorced parents and raised by her mother; she and her twin brother got discovered by Midas Models during a trip to New York when she was 18. Some scandalous relationship with Abigail Midas, but that’s all Mary Margaret gets from the “Personal life” part of the page. That, and the fact that James Nolan is now in rehab, apparently. Like a footnote just to remind the world that she isn’t the fucked-up one of the pair.

David Nolan, though – a mystery wrapped in a question wrapped in a body to die for. The name is a puzzle in and out of itself, because nothing about that soft hair and velvet skin screams of androgynous. It fits her, still, even if Mary Margaret couldn’t explain why. It just does.

She gets frustrated over the Wikipedia page before she even reached the External Links section – she usually isn’t one to stalk, especially not models and especially not models who pose in front of her camera. But there was something about David… Something that is more than a pretty face (she’s been in the fashion industry since she was born, Mary Margaret no longer is affected by beauty), something in her eyes, in the curve of her smile – something different, something more.

Mary Margaret finds herself drawn to it. To her.

It has never happened before, not with any of the women she shot. Or any of the men, for all it matters, Mary Margaret doesn’t discriminate in that department. It upsets her, not being able to put her finger on that thing that’s been haunting her since this morning’s shooting session, since she shakes David Nolan’s hand and asked her to stand in front of the camera. Not having the answers to her questions frustrates her to no end.

A sigh escapes her lips as she closes the Wikipedia page before she gets tempted to Google the model even more thoroughly. Stalking only goes so far, after all. Still, she grabs her phone where it lies on the desk, and scrolls through her contact lists until she reaches the Ms.

Marian picks up after the second ring.

“Snow!” she exclaims, smile in her voice – a nickname that will follow Mary Margaret for years to come, chosen on a whim as an artist’s signature before going back to her real name. “Long time not seen.”

Mary Margaret smiles too, frustration all but disappearing. “I know, I’m sorry. How are you?”

There is background noise behind Marian, sound of chatter and camera snapping that always comes with photo sessions. Mary Margaret feels bad, only slightly, about interrupting her mentor during such a moment. “Oh, I’m always fine. What about you?”

She bites on her bottom lip, suddenly unsure. Embarrassment creeps up her cheeks even if Marian can’t see her – it is such a stupid thing to do, such a foolish reason to call _the_ Marian Locksley during working hours. But there is no going back from there, not without lying at least, a habit Mary Margaret doesn’t relishes in. So she braces herself with a deep sigh, before she asks the question burning her lips.

“Have you ever had a muse?”

There is a moment of silence, only filled with the background noise of the studio, where Mary Margaret can picture Marian tapping on her mouth with two fingers, the way she always does when she’s thinking. It reminds her of art school, of Marian slowly and silently reviewing her work before final exams.

Finally, after what may only be seconds but might as well be hours, Marian replies. “Who is it?” A question as a reply, Mary Margaret isn’t even surprised. It’s the way things work in their circles, always deflecting, always bringing the attention elsewhere.

“David Nolan,” she says, not one for those games.

“Wait, is that the girl or the guy?”

That at least makes her laugh, a little breathless noise, as she looks up to the ceiling and shakes her head. “The girl, of course.”

Marian hums her approval, sound stretching on for several seconds before, “I can see the appeal. You should ask for another shooting, see how things go. If you still feel the attraction, we’ll talk about it then. It might only be a passing fancy, or it might be the real deal – make sure you know which one.”

It might not be the answer Mary Margaret expected – she remembers that series of photographs Marian had taken when she was still a teacher, of a Chinese model with eyes to die for and never-ending legs. Maybe, just maybe, Marian had felt for her what Mary Margaret begins to feel for David – that pull deep within her stomach, that need to see more of her, immortalize her soul. Maybe, just maybe, but it sounds like she will never know, like it will remain one of the many mysteries surrounding Marian Locksley.

“Thank you,” she hears herself saying. The piece of advice is helpful, after all, even if not what she was expecting of that conversation. She taps her nail against the dark wood of her desk as she adds, “Say hello to Roland for me.”

“Will do, Snow. Do the same with Ruby, will you?”

They share more civilities before Mary Margaret hangs up. She stares at her computer’s screen for a while, even if it is but an empty Google page, before she opens another software and begins going through the pictures of the morning’s shooting session. David’s smile is the first thing she sees as she starts editing, and it dazzles her for at least a full second before she gets a grip and forces herself to remain professional.

Still, she would look good in black and white, with the old argentic camera Mary Margaret preciously keeps in her office, rarely to be used. She would look good in black and white, and a shiver of excitation runs down Mary Margaret’s spine as she makes a mental note to call Midas Models later tonight.

 

…

 

The photoshoot sessions is scheduled for the next Friday.

Mary Margaret is used to being the smallest person in the room. She isn’t all that tall to begin with, and working with models on a daily basis means that she’s working with giants. She reaches the other women’s shoulder, on a good day – when she wears her highest heels and stands with her back straight as a board.

Still, she has never felt more like a Hobbit that when David Nolan stands in the doorframe of her studio, all bright smiles and wavy long hair. All things considered, she isn’t that tall – Mary Margaret has seen worse – but she is all charm and charisma and kindness, and it makes her take much more place than she actually does. Which is a bit intimidating, if Mary Margaret is honest.

She forces herself to brush it off as she welcomes David inside with a smile of her own, one she hopes not to be nervous. It’s been a lifetime since she’s done a photoshoot for the hell of it and not because she was paid for the pictures, and it reminds her of all the hours spent in the studios with Ruby when they were in art school, where her best friend was the only one willing to pose for her all the while only being paid in coffee and pastries.

David Nolan will definitely not been paid in coffee and pastries for the few hours they’ll spend together – Mary Margaret still winces at the check she had to write, the fees were indecent, seriously. She shrugs out of her Burberry coat as she enters the studios, looking curiously around her, before she turns back to the photographer.

“Thanks for picking me,” she says, her voice soft and gentle, like she isn’t one of the rising stars of the catwalk, like she’s still surprised people would actually have her posing for them.

Mary Margaret melts on the spot.

“Thank you for agreeing to this, really,” she replies as she takes the coat from the other woman’s hand to put it aside. “Do you want something to drink before we start?”

“No, I’m good.” She rolls up the sleeves of her plaid shirt before planting her hands on her hips. “Midas said it wasn’t editorial work?”

“No, actually.” Mary Margaret plays with the faux fur hood of the coat for a second too long, before she turns back to the other woman. “I want to try something else. Something new.”

David’s smile is tentative and curious as she raises her eyebrows in a silent question. She seems truly interested in whatever Mary Margaret has to say and offer, unlike many a model who only bothers about her phone and social network accounts in between shootings. This is a hard world they live it, after all, and it doesn’t leave room for much socializing outside work contact and fake politeness. But David doesn’t play those games, her face open and honest as she waits for an answer, an explanation.

“You fascinates me,” Mary Margaret blurs out then, a blush creeping up her cheeks at her lack of delicacy. “I want to take more pictures of you, see if you, if maybe you could be my muse. If you don’t mind!”

It is David’s turn to look sheepish, as she averts her eyes for the first time since she entered the studio. Her smile takes an embarrassed curve, but doesn’t disappear completely. When she looks back to the photographer, her own cheeks are coloured with a hint of pink.

“I’ve never been anyone’s muse before.”

“I’ve never had a muse before,” she replies in all honesty.

They laugh together and, even if it is soft and shy, it helps the awkwardness vanish and the mood settle into something easier, less heavy. After a moment of hesitation, Mary Margaret shows David to the makeshift changing room in a corner of the studio, explaining that since it is a private session she didn’t feel the need to call in the stylist and make-up artist. Whatever the model is wearing will be more than fine today, since it is more about chemistry than it is about fashion or clothes. David nods a little before turning to the mirror, licking her pinkie before rubbing it on top of her lid to fix her eyeliner a bit.

Mary Margaret takes it as her cue to leave, and she plays with her camera a little as she waits for her model to come back to her. Which she does barely a minute later, typing a rapid text on her phone before putting the device back in the back pocket of her jeans.

She stands in front of the camera for a moment, unsure of what to do, and so Mary Margaret turns to the sound system behind her, turns it on until some background music fills the studio.

“Joan Jett,” David smiles, head already bobbing to the music. “Good tastes.”

“Thanks.” Mary Margaret comes back to her camera. “Just – do as you wish at first. I need to check the settings.”

David gives her some basic poses, camera snapping a dozen of times before Mary Margaret checks the results. She gives a thumbs-up, satisfied by the lightening and contrast, and David nods in reply before she grabs the collar of her plaid shirt.

The switch is noticeable, and impressive. One second she’s the girl next door, friendly and smiling. The next she turns into the model, chin up and head high, smile the right side of mysterious and eye hiding many a secret. She’s a presence, and Mary Margaret’s camera goes on and on – _snap, snap, snap_ – as fast as the device allows it.

“Turn your head left – a little higher – more smiling – look down a bit – now right – yes, _perfect_.” Mary Margaret’s indications tumble out of her mouth easily as she guides David into the poses, again and again. Joan Jett turns into The Clash, then into Blondie, the rhythm of the drums matching David’s steps and movements as if she was dancing to the sound of the bass instead of posing.

And then Mary Margaret stops, all of a sudden, mutters a surprised little ‘huh’.

“Is there a problem?” David asks, hand still buried in her golden hair.

“No, I – the card just ran out of memory.”

Which isn’t a rarity in itself – the pictures are so high quality, they take a lot of place – but Mary Margaret hadn’t realised she had taken so many pictures already, and it takes her by surprise. She shrugs a little as she opens her camera and takes out the card to puts an empty one in its place.

“I guess it’s time to do a break, then.”

David nods and smiles, and gone is the model – it gives Mary Margaret a little whiplash, if she’s been honest. “Do you have Earl Grey?” she asks simply, falling into step with the photographer as she makes her way to the corner where boxes of tea and coffee are pilling, next to a coffee machine and a kettle.

They fall into an easy conversation as Mary Margaret softly blows on her hot chocolate for it too cool down – about the fashion weeks to come, the next issue of Vogue, their careers up until then. David admits having googled Mary Margaret after her call to Midas Models, to check her work, and so she feels a little less badly about her own stalkerish tendencies.

They talk and talk, and suddenly David’s phone rings, startling them both. “Damn,” she says before she picks up. “I know, I know, I just checked the time right now… I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be on my way.” She hangs up, taps her nail to the screen of the phone. “Duty calls.”

Mary Margaret raises her eyes to the clock then, and they widen as she realises they’ve been talking for two entire hours and their session has come to an end half an hour ago. She takes David’s empty cup from her with an apology, knowing how crazy a model’s schedule can be.

The blonde woman grabs her coat, but doesn’t put it on. “Don’t worry, it was fun,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “We should do it again. Maybe?”

The last word is tentative, holding more than one question. Mary Margaret nods, a little too eagerly perhaps. “I’ll check the pictures and I’ll call you if… Well, if it worked.”

Whatever _it_ is.

David nods one more time and, with another smile, she is gone.

After she closed the door, Mary Margaret presses her forehead to it, lets out a soft yet long whine. She is so doomed, it’s all kinds of ridiculous.

 

…

 

The pictures take her breath away. Quite literally. Mary Margaret is her harshest critic, she knows, but even knowing that she can only comes to one conclusion: those are some of the best pictures she’s ever taken ever since she grabbed a camera when she was nine. It has a lot to do with the model, of course, because David makes it easy to do good pictures, with that face and that charisma but –

Just to be sure, she sends some of the pictures to Marian, because she knows her mentor won’t waste time on false compliments and go straight to the point.

Her reply comes a few minutes later.

 _Don’t let her out of your sight. You are perfect together_.

 

…

 

They meet for coffee the following week, and those long legs wrapped in tight jeans have Mary Margaret a little weak in the knees when David enters the little coffee shop. She shrugs off her coat as she sits opposite the photographer at the table, and Mary Margaret is delighted to see she wears yet another plaid shirt (blue, this time) over a white tank top.

“Have you heard about Emma Swan?”

David doesn’t look the type to gossip just for the sake of gossiping, so Mary Margaret smiles at the way she just dives into the conversation, obviously excited about the news – it’s on everyone’s lips, after all, how Hollywood sweetheart Emma Swan is going to walk for Killian Jones during New York’s fashion week.

“I know,” Mary Margaret replies, eyes wide for emphasis. “Isn’t it great?”

“She’s my friend,” David adds, with pride in her voice. “She kept it a secret for weeks, I can’t believe!”

“They say she’s Jones’ muse now. Inspired his entire new collection.”

David nods excitingly, before her smile turns a little wicked. “Looks like everyone is finding their muse, lately.”

The waitress appears at their table then, saving Mary Margaret from replying to _that_. She orders her usual hot chocolate with cinnamon and cherry pie, before David does the same, chai latte and chocolate cake. Mary Margaret taps her nail against the empty glass in front of her as the waitress leaves, and she doesn’t meet David’s eyes for a very long while.

“The pictures were great, by the way. More than great, actually.” She looks up at the other woman through her lashes. “I would like to work with you again.”

And here is that soft smile again, with a little dimple on her cheek – this is unfair, seriously, so very unfair. “I would love working with you again, too.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

That’s when the waitress comes back with their drinks and food, and so Mary Margaret busies herself with playing with the cream on top of her hot chocolate not to stare at David’s face. Her fingers tingle in that way that makes her want to lunge for her bag and grabs the camera she brings everywhere with her, because the sun is falling just the right way on David’s face, turning her hair to golden hues and making her eyes a more vibrant hue – she looks like a modern version of Audrey Hepburn, with the way she leans her elbow on the table, hand resting in the palm of her hand as she looks at the photographer in front of her.

Mary Margaret shakes her head, and takes a sip of hot cocoa. “So, tell me all about being friends with movie stars.”

David barks a laugh, loud and clear, before she throws herself into a story involving Emma Swan, a movie set between takes and a robotic dragon on the loose. It’s quite the tale, really, and Mary Margaret chuckles at all the right moments, eyes softening as David goes on and on with more hand gestures than is necessary.

They’re talking about Hollywood as they shrug on their coats and pay the bill, Mary Margaret explaining how Ruby found herself working for a movie once, and how dreadful it was according to her best friend. The discussion moves on to Los Angeles, and to New York, and before she knows it Mary Margaret is standing in front of the entrance door of her building. Huh.

“Huh.”

David snorts a little, like she doesn’t want to openly laugh. “We need to stop doing this.”

“We really do,” she replies as she rummages through her bag to find her keys – she can hear them somewhere, but her bag is a mess of junk so it takes some time. Not enough time, though, as her fingers wrap around the metal a few seconds later. She grips the keys a little too tightly as she looks back to David. “I’ll call Midas to schedule our next shooting.”

“You do that,” she says, and bites her bottom lip a little. “Do you already have ideas?”

“Yes, actually. I would love to work on fairytales, on retelling them with a new perspective on the story, where Prince Charming is a princess and she helps the other women save themselves.”

It’s a project she’s had in mind for a while now – for years, even, but she never found the perfect Charming, never found the right person to play off the strength and softness and bravery and sensibility of Charming. Until now.

“Sound promising,” David replies, and she means it. She always means everything she says. And then, a little more teasing, “Do I get to wear an armour?”

Mary Margaret laughs, and leans closer with a fake whisper, “You even get a sword.”

She opens her eyes wide in mocked disbelief and if Mary Margaret wasn’t certain before, she is now – she wants to work with that woman for the rest of her life, wants to immortalize her and turn her into Charming, a queen, a goddess. She wants the names of Nolan and Blanchard to go in pair in people’s mind, want people to remember them, together, always together. She wants, wants, wants so much it’s overwhelming, makes her dizzy and light and excited all at once.

(She wants to taste the smile on her lips.)

 

…

 

She calls Ruby the following day, with little regard for time zones and how late it might be in Milan – chances Ruby is awake no matter the hour anyway, and if not she only needs a cup of coffee to be back on tracks. One of the many perks of being her best friend, her reactivity even at three in the morning.

“I met someone,” is all she says when Ruby picks up the phone.

Her statement is met with exactly the kind of reaction she expected, having already puts the phone as far away from her ear as her little arm would allowed. Even so, Ruby’s screech is loud enough to wake up all her Italian neighbours.

“I knew it!” is the first thing she hears when she presses the phone to her ear again. “I saw the pictures and I had this, like, feeling about it but I wasn’t sure and you didn’t call, but then rumours started _spreading_ and I knew it.”

“Wait. There’s rumours already?”

Her heart beats faster all of a sudden. It’s one thing to ask David to work with her, to meet a bunch of times and take a bunch of pictures, but it’s a whole different story if the media is already in on them. Mostly because they will twist the facts to make it sound romantic or kinky or both (definitely both) and she isn’t ready for that kind of press, not after so many years being quiet about her private life, whether it be romantic or physical.

(Probably because nothing happened on that front in quite some time. There was a doctor, once, and it was terrible. That’s about all there is to know on the subject.)

“She tweeted about it?” Ruby replies, unsure. “Don’t you follow her on social networks already?”

Mary Margaret sighs as she turns in her chair to face her computer. A quick and simple search gives her both David’s Twitter and Instagram account. And indeed it is here, the little ‘had fun with @MMBlanchard at Granny’s today’ that started it all. Perhaps she should check her notifications more often from now on.

She clicks on the ‘follow’ button on both accounts, then twirls in her chair again, lean backwards to stare at the ceiling. Ruby sighs by the other side of the phone, the long and desperate whine of a woman who didn’t get enough information for her liking.

“She’s so gorgeous, Ruby. You should see her. Pictures don’t do her any justice.”

She’s certain Ruby covers her gleeful giggle with a cough. That’s a very Ruby thing to do. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Take more pictures and hope to get her out of my system?”

She doesn’t mean it as a question but here it is. Here she is, unsure and anxious, so out of her depth it stopped being funny a week ago. A hundred models stood in front of her camera, and a thousand more will before the end of her career, all more beautiful and stunning and amazing than the other. That’s just the way things are. So she doesn’t understand what is so different about David, what about her makes Mary Margaret’s heart beats faster and stop at the same time. This is so very unsettling, and so very annoying.

“Snow…” Ruby starts with a sigh, one that always comes with a roll of the eyes. “Are you falling for her?”

“What? No!”

Is she? How is she supposed to know? She’s never been in love before, not when she spent her childhood in mourning, her teenage years in anger, and then threw herself in her work like a woman who has something to prove to the world. Feelings were always secondary, like a footnote at the bottom of the page. Useless, unimportant, annoying. A waste of time, basically.

“Come on, Rubs, don’t be silly. I barely know her. I – just – come on. No.”

“Wow.” Slow, sarcastic. “How’s Egypt this time of the year?”

“I am _not_ in denial.”

“Are too.”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, a little more frustrated with each passing second. Ruby has that power, being frustrating and infuriatingly right most of the time. She would hate her, if she didn’t love her so much.

“Bang her, then. That’s the best way to get her out of your system.”

“Yes, because casual sex is exactly my type.”

They keep arguing for another ten minutes, the way only sister and fire-forged best friends do – with a lot of talking at the same time and little sounds at the back of their throat and frustrated moans. It’s basically a mess of a conversation, and it doesn’t help matter be, but Mary Margaret feels slightly better by the end of it – she always feels better after talking with Ruby, whatever problem she’s facing.

“Just bang her, okay? Bye, love you.”

And then Ruby hangs up on her.

Mary Margaret sighs and pinches her nose, before standing up to make some tea. If she’s going to lose sleep over a pretty face, at least she will do it with hot beverages and some work done.

 

…

 

They meet again the following week, in a little Italian restaurant called Tony’s, and Mary Margaret stares at the way David swallows down an entire pizza in the blink of an eye. She knows the cliché about models eating barely nothing is nothing but a cliché and, even if they have strict diets, they’re still allows to have full stomachs three times a day. Still, it doesn’t prepare her for David Nolan eating a pizza like her life depends of it.

David catches her staring and laughs. “I know, I was blessed with a good metabolism, you can hate me all you like about it.”

“Sorry,” is all she replies, looking down at her own plate as she twirls some pasta around her fork. She doesn’t feel all that hungry, but not eating would probably come off as rude.

“Hey, no problem.” David stops her feast to drink a sip of wine. Even without looking, Mary Margaret knows she’s smiling. She’s always smiling. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

David puts her glass back on the table, and then folds her arm on the edge of it. “Is it true? What they say about you and Regina Mills?”

There’s a knot in Mary Margaret’s throat. Still, she stales her answer by putting her fork to her mouth as she rakes her brains over the answer to give. This isn’t an easy subject, one she usually refuses to dwell on for longer than is necessary – it only brings back dark memories and leave her uneasy for days to come.

“It depends of what you’ve heard. But if it’s about how my step-mother managed to disown me after my father’s death so she could become the CEO of the family’s business – then yes, it is true.”

The smile all but vanished from David’s face as she stares into Mary Margaret’s eyes with a small frown. She doesn’t reply anything – what is there to say that Mary Margaret hasn’t already heard, after all? – and so silence settles awkwardly between them, stretching on for long minutes.

“And now I’ve ruined our date,” Mary Margaret goes on, before taking a long and much needed gulp of wine.

“Is that what it is? A _date_?”

The photographer’s cheeks turn crimson, even as she stare into David’s blue eyes. “Not if I ruined it, it isn’t.”

David hails a taxi for her after dinner, while Mary Margaret busies herself with wrapping her heavy coat around her shoulders and toys with the buttons for a little longer than is necessary. David opens the door to the car for her, with a grin and a line about practicing her gentlemany manners, she’s supposed to be Prince Charming after all. And then she kisses her, hand still on the car’s door and free arm wrapping around Mary Margaret’s waist.

It’s sweet and warm and it tastes a bit like the wine they’ve been drinking tonight, and she whines a bit when David steps back – the model licks her lips, and such an erotic motion should probably be illegal.

Mary Margaret comes to one conclusion when the taxi pulls out and into New York’s night traffic: this isn’t the kind of woman you can get out of your system.

 

…

 

She soon finds out that there is better than taking pictures of David. There is taking picture of David wearing lingerie and making-out in between takes, smiling and laughing and whispering with her mouth against the model’s. They don’t get much done most of the time, but Mary Margaret doesn’t really care that much when her fingers graze against the soft skin of David’s stomach, her back, her collarbones.

She’s all creamy skin and round curves, and she’s perfect. Warm and soft and gentle as she holds Mary Margaret’s face in her hands, kisses her until they’re both breathless and panting.

Mary Margaret has never felt that way before, and it scares her half to death when her heart does that little loop thing as soon as David enters the studio, all expensive coat and plaid shirt and long legs. She smiles and throws her coat away and dives in for a kiss the photographer all too eagerly offers, and then they forget all about taking pictures for half an hour.

It’s all kinds of ridiculous, seriously.

“I think I’m in love,” she tells Ruby one day, and her best friend yells into the phone for five long minutes, something that sounds like ‘I told you so’ and ‘I knew it’ and ‘I’m so happy for you’ all at once.

When she does remember her camera is something she should use when David is nearby, she gets some of the best work she’s ever done in her life – Ruby agrees, Marian agrees, and even people on the Internet agree when she updates her website with an entire category for pictures she takes of David.

Soon that’s all everyone is talking about – David says Killian Jones is sulking because he no longer is under the spotlights, and it makes Mary Margaret laugh – and the rumours grow bigger and wilder with each passing week. Not that Mary Margaret cares. She’s happy and in love and her lips always swollen, and she learns that there are more important things in life that what Perez Hilton writes about you.

Whatever, really.

 

…

 

David’s head rests on her bare breast, fingers idling tracing Mary Margaret’s collarbone in a gentle, featherlike touch. They lie in bed, sheets tangled in their legs and soft Jazz music in the background, and it’s all kinds of perfect in that blissful post-orgasm way. Her legs are a little sore, her chest still heavy with each breath she takes, and her skin is tingling in a way it never did before. She runs her fingers through David’s hair, a little damp and a little messy. It’s all kinds of perfect.

A shiver runs down her spine when David presses a kiss to her breast, but she’s too lazy and tired to move, to go for a second round. So she tightens her hold on the model’s hair in retaliation, grins at the moan that escapes her lips.

“Are you coming to Fashion Week?” the blonde asks after a while.

She can’t believe it’s almost September already, even with the bright sun filtering through the window, with the heat wave they’ve been struggling with all summer long. Only a few weeks before that nightmare of a show, before everyone goes bonkers over this stylist and that model, screaming and crying for a ticket to every show. It’s hell, and it’s twice a year – even more, when Mary Margaret goes to Paris or Milan, too.

“Of course,” she replies, soft and lazy.

“She’ll be there, too.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t need to know who _she_ is. Mostly because she is there every year, with her bloody lips, high heels and black dresses, representing Mist Haven and smiling that feral smile of hers as she shakes hand with basically everyone. Mary Margaret has learnt never to be in the same room as Regina, never at the same show. Probably because she would kill her with a champagne cup, but it is neither here nor there.

Still, David hasn’t been shy about her opinion on the subject, pushing Mary Margaret to do something, anything, to take back what belongs to her, to stop pretending Regina is the queen in the castle. It would take time, and energy, and an army of suits Mary Margaret can barely afford to begin with, but it would be worth it. It would be like coming home.

“Then we’ll welcome her with our best ‘fuck you’ smiles.”

“Language!” David says, and bites on her breast as a form of punishment. Mary Margaret startles with a moaning laugh as warmth pools in her belly once more. “She makes Anna Wintour look like Mother Teresa.”

“How about we stop talking about my step-mother while in bed?”

Teasing grin curving up her lips, David props herself up on an elbow, then settles above Mary Margaret, hands on both side of her face. Her long hair falls around them, shielding them from the world in their golden glory. “How about we stop talking altogether?”

Mary Margaret laughs and nods, and then bites down on her lips as David’s find her pulsing point by her neck, then travel downward to her collarbone, her breast, her navel. Her breathing is heavy and ragged as she presses her legs together again the pressure building there, and then Mary Margaret stops thinking altogether when David grabs one of her knees, pulls her leg above her shoulder.

Everything else is moans and whines and David, David, _David_.

 

…

 

She hates Fashion Week.

“I love Fashion Week!” Ruby exclaims next to her, all red lips and red nails and red dress – typical, both the colour and the mood. She’s like a kid on a sugar rush on Christmas morning, which is the worst side of Ruby.

Especially with the way she keeps tugging on Mary Margaret’s hand, nevermind the fact that they’re both wearing the highest heels known to mankind and thus can barely walk, let alone run like Ruby is planning to do. Because Ruby has to go places, you see, has to show her pretty face to the world before she goes backstage for her own show tonight. Which is ridiculous, and a little extravagant, but then again such a Ruby thing to do – she earned her name that way after all, with her extrovert tendencies and overuse of creativity in her work.

“Slow down!”

“Where’s David?” she goes on, either not having heard Mary Margaret or simply ignoring her. One never knows. “You said she would be here.”

“Yes, she’s here and she’s _working_ because she’s a _model_. Geez, calm down.”

Ruby doesn’t need to know David has been sending her random pictures all morning long because she’s bored out of her mind waiting for the make-up artist and hair stylist to take care of her. She even sent a selfie, a close-up of herself pouting like there is no tomorrow, and it now is her contact picture on Mary Margaret’s phone, quite obviously.

Ruby stops in her tracks, folds her arms on her chest like she means business. “Are you hiding her from me, Mary Margaret Blanchard?”

“ _Yes_.” She rolls her eyes, for good measure. “Which is exactly why she’s meeting us for lunch.”

That seems to satisfy Ruby, as she lets out a little giggle before grabbing Mary Margaret’s wrist again with something about a woman named Ashley who makes shoes to die for and she needs to meet her, she just does. The morning goes on that way, Ruby dragging Mary Margaret along like a lost puppy, introducing her to people, getting excited over this or that thing. She’s an alien in a world of cold faces and stern glances, with her wolfish grins, loud voice and even louder laughs. Not that Mary Margaret minds, because it makes for an entertaining day, and it helps her forget about things until lunchtime comes and they meet David in a little restaurant not far from the podiums.

She kisses Mary Margaret, a small peck on the cheek, before turning to Ruby, all smiles and blue eyes and pretty face. “It’s nice to finally meet you. How was Italy?”

That’s basically all Ruby needs to be smitten, and she throws herself in a speech about Milan and fabrics and a hundred other things as she explains what her new collection is about and what she’s planning for next year. She does most of the talking, and David does most of the nodding, her thumb drawing circles on Mary Margaret’s knee under the table.

She still has smudges of red eyeliner at the corners of her eyes, and her hair is heavy with hair spray, and she looks exhausted. But she still gives Ruby all her attention and attacks her steak like a starving woman, so Mary Margaret knows she’s fine. That’s just Fashion Week, killing everyone from the very beginning, and then killing them some more each day.

“I should get going,” David finally says as her finger ghosts over the screen of her phone. “I have another catwalk in three hours.”

Ruby almost jumps on the spot. “Aurora’s?”

“That would be the one.”

Her best friend turns to her, all white teeth and wide eyes. “That’s the one we have tickets for!”

Mary Margaret is quite aware of that, thank you very much. She’s also aware she’ll need a cold shower after the show, because there’s no way she can handle one of David’s catwalks without ending in a puddle of feelings and lust. She’s just that far gone. Still, she plays it cool, and simply nods – probably not fooling anyone, but at least she tries.

And she was right of course, because three hours later she’s forcing herself to stand still on her bench, crossing her legs and clenching her hands because nobody should be allowed to look this hot and amazing and impressing. Which obviously means Ruby leans towards her at some point, whispering to her ear about her wanting little Nolan babies. She shoves her best friend away with a scoff, but then she thinks of little girls with blonde hair and green eyes – science and basic anatomy be damned, really.

 

…

 

David falls face first on the bed that night, high heel still dangling from her foot and snore escaping her mouth in a matter of seconds. Mary Margaret bursts into laughter and snaps a picture, for the heck of it.

 

…

 

Regina finds them the following day.

David doesn’t have a show today and Mary Margaret’s first job is later tonight, which means they’re basically wandering around and chatting – it’s quiet and peaceful and nice, which is exactly why Regina comes and ruins it. Like she always does.

She’s all sneers and glares as she stares at their entwined fingers for longer than is necessary or appropriate, before her eyes settle on Mary Margaret’s. If looks could kill…

“What a surprise seeing you here, darling,” she says, although she sounds anything but. It probably has to do with Mary Margaret being here every year, but go figure. Still she leans forwards and drops a kiss on each of Mary Margaret’s cheek, for good measure. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Voice clipped, not even bothering to ask back. She won’t even give the illusion of caring.

“I heard you’re shooting Jefferson’s show tonight. That’s… nice.”

The dripping sarcasm isn’t out of the usual, but Mary Margaret still clenches her jaw in reply, David’s fingers tightening around hers as if to tell her not to do anything reckless right now. Oh, she wouldn’t give Regina such a pleasure, because it would only prove her right – the poor, little orphan who went mad after her father’s death, who wasn’t fit to take over after him. An outburst of anger, even more so in public, would show the world Regina was right all along, Regina was right to push Mary Margaret aside and rise at the top of Mist Haven in her place.

“I am, indeed,” she replies instead, all saccharine sweet smiles.

“It’s so bad you left Mist Haven. You would have had the opportunity to shoot all the shows if you were still with us.” Regina smiles, and it looks like a sneer. “But I guess you’re better off with your cheap shoots and your… distractions.”

Her eyes settle on David as she says the last word, and it is Mary Margaret’s time to squeeze the other woman’s hand for her not to react. It’s a cheap shot anyway, aiming low where it hurts the most – at least where it’s supposed to hurt the most, because Mary Margaret knows her worth, as a photographer and as a woman, and so she won’t let that harpy affect her so easily.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go,” Regina goes on, not even waiting for a reply when all she needs is to throw her venom at Mary Margaret’s face. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Nolan.”

“Oh, the pleasure was mutual,” David replies with no small amount of sarcasm in her voice and the most hypocritical smile she can muster.

Regina frowns at her, obviously not fooled, before she turns around and leave the both of them, her high heels clattering against the pavement. Mary Margaret doesn’t dare moving as she watches her stepmother leave, body trembling with her repressed rage at the conversation they just had.

She doesn’t turn to David when she asks, “Do you know a good lawyer?”

There is a pause. Then, “Yeah, I know a guy.”

“Good.” When she finally looks to David, it’s with determination in her eyes and her body straight, her head high. “We’ll need an army of them.”

David smiles, and kisses her.

 

…

 

Her studio turns into a war council.

It’s not even one week after the end of Fashion Week, and Ruby has printed the names of every employee at Mist Haven – every photographer and stylist and model, every secretary, editor, make-up artist – as well as the artists having worked for the magazine in the last three years. Each profile on a page, each page on the wall they turned into a giant board, staring at it every so often.

More documents are scattered on a large table, with the coffee machine and half a dozen mugs. Mary Margaret never thought she would have that many allies in her vendetta against Regina, and especially didn’t think said allies would come in the shape of Emma Swan, standing with her hands on her hips in front of the board, scanning each and every name there.

“Elsa Arendelle won’t be hard to convinced,” she says, pointing to the picture of the young yet talented stylist. Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow at her statement. “She’s my cousin. Kinda.”

“We can also count on Ashley, Aurora, and Ariel.” Ruby points to each of the names as she says them, from her place sitting against the table. “I’ve already worked with them, they’re friends.”

Mary Margaret nods as she hands her best friend the landline phone, before pouring herself a cup of coffee. She’s been awake for what feels like centuries now, woken up by David at the crack of dawn to meet with the lawyer, and her usual hot cocoa stops being powerful enough hours ago. She needs something stronger if she wants to survive the day.

“Your case is a difficult but not impossible one,” Archibalt Hooper had told her, flipping through her file. “You’ll need a business degree, clearly, or else the judge will never take you seriously. But if you have someone you can trust to put in this position while you catch up, it would help.”

“I know someone. Lancelot Troyes. He worked as my father’s second before Regina fired him.”

“Good. Call him, tell him to meet me, we’ll go from there.” He’d stared at another page then, frowning slightly. “We’ll need to play on Regina’s reputation too, show that you can do as well, if not better than her. Contact people who work with her, people you trust – make sure they are by your side. And you’ll need to bring something new to the table, something Regina could never bring to Mist Haven. It would help.”

She had nodded and scribbled on her notepad but, hours later, she still doesn’t know what she can do on that particular subject. She’s enrolled in NYU the moment she was out of the office, and Lancelot is taking the first plane from London tomorrow morning, and now here they are. Calling everyone and their mother to make sure they will stop working for Regina, will swear allegiance to Mary Margaret until she rises to the metaphorical throne.

Archie Hooper was right – it almost sounds impossible. But with the combined efforts of her friends, and the connections they all have in the fashion industry, it sounds a little less impossible with each phone call they take.

“Jefferson is in,” Killian Jones says as he comes back to the main room, grabbing his own mug in the process. “He says, and I quote, that he ‘can’t wait for the old nag to finally piss off’.”

Mary Margaret’s lips curl into a smirk. Regina’s bad reputation ultimately is her downfall, which makes the victory even sweeter. Killian replies in kind with a grin of his own as well as a wink, before going to stand next to Emma in front of the board, looking for the next person to call.

“I could take pictures of you all right now and sell them to the paps. Would pay for the lawyer’s fees alright,” Ruby says without even looking up from the text she’s sending. “It’s like the fashion section of JustJared is living in this room. I’m going to tweet this.”

“Don’t,” David replies immediately with a roll of the eyes. Not that Ruby would ever do such a thing to begin with, but one is never too careful these days. It doesn’t stop Ruby from sighing dramatically as she rises to rip Ariel’s page off the wall and then moves farther to call the redhead.

The rest of the day, and then the rest of the week, goes on in the same fashion of phone calls and texts and meetings with Archie Hooper. They are far from seeing the end of the tunnel, but at least they’re moving forwards, and Mary Margaret focuses on that instead of the months it will take to build a solid enough case to bring in front of the judge. There is still the problem of her father’s will, obvious falsified, even if they can’t prove it yet – fifteen years is such a long time to hide evidences.

She is stretching in front of the board, wondering if she should call Marco or Tink next, when Emma appears next to her. She glances over her shoulder, to Killian most likely, before focusing back on the brunette.

“I may have a solution to your last problem,” she says, almost cryptically.

They’ve become somewhat friends through the week, although Emma’s trust is hard to gain. She pushed back a travel to Los Angeles to stay with them, something that blow Mary Margaret’s mind just thinking about – it’s a movie star, for crying out loud, Los Angeles is her _life_ – and has been using her contacts all week long to help. Mary Margaret still doesn’t understand why, beside the fact that Killian and Ruby are friends.

“The person you can bring to Mist Haven and Regina can’t,” she goes on, handing her phone to the photographer. It’s opened on a contact number, and Mary Margaret’s eyes widen when she reads the name.

“Graham Humbert?” She shakes her head. “He’d never come back to Mist Haven.”

It had been everywhere in the tabloids a few years ago – young, talented Graham modelling for Mist Haven and his scandalous relationship with Regina. It had ended badly, and that’s putting it kindly. He has ever since made it loud and clear he would never work for them ever again. Never work again, period, since he stopped modelling altogether and became an actor instead.

Mary Margaret doesn’t know the details, but what she knows is enough to guess someone like him would never set foot in Mist Haven’s building ever again.

“He refuses to work for Regina, not for the magazine. I called him yesterday, he agreed to meet you.”

Mary Margaret stares at the actress – Emma is still closed-off, but her features are soft, her smile timid but visible. She’s a mystery, that woman, and Mary Margaret understands what Killian Jones saw in her, because she’s fascinating too.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Emma shrugs, her eyes fleeting to the back of the room once more. “I know what it feels like to hit rock bottom. We’re not so different, you and I, it’s like – like I’ve known you all my life. I wanted to help, because you would have done the same thing for me if the roles were reversed.”

 

…

 

She meets with Graham Humbert the next weekend, makes sure the coffee shop where they spend the afternoon is right in the centre of New York. He’s nice and kind and has the worst sense of humour known to mankind, which of course means Mary Margaret loves him immediately and spends hours talking with him.

He agrees to work with her as soon as she’s at the head of Mist Haven, even agrees to the first cover of the magazine if she so wishes. (She does.)

It makes the paparazzi pictures all the sweetest.

 

…

 

“You need a break,” David says when she enters the studio one morning.

Mary Margaret looks up from her laptop, eyes widening in surprise when the model puts a box on the table and folds her arms on her chest. She means business, quite obviously, and so Mary Margaret gives up on what she was working on to slide the box closer to her. With one more look to David, she opens it, and her eyebrows shoot up at what she finds inside.

It’s one of those new Polaroid cameras, the kind she’s always found a little silly in their mix of retro and modern technology. She looks back to David then, questions in her eyes.

“It’s been three months, and you’re going crazy over Mist Haven. Archie said there’s nothing more we can do for now, and you’re starting the semester at NYU in a month. You need a break. Away from this, away from New York.”

“And what do you have in mind?”

“Well…” she dwells on the word for a little longer than necessary, grin blossoming on her lips. “You know how much I love pizza.”

Rome is cold but beautiful that time of the year, so different from Milan, and Mary Margaret wonders how she can go to Europe at least once a year and never take the time to properly visit. Their hotel is in the middle of everything, and David insists on renting a Vespa for the week because sometimes she’s just cliché that way. They ride around town and visit museums and eat more pasta than is probably legal, laughing and kissing and taking pictures, before falling in bed at night, fingers grabbing the sheets and toe curling deliciously.

It is Mary Margaret’s best holiday since – _ever_. She forgets about Regina, and Mist Haven, and the bills she no longer knows how to pay. For a week, just a week, she forgets about everything if it is for David’s body pressed to hers and her own heart about to burst with too many feelings she can no longer contain.

They’re walking through the little streets at night, only the soft lights of restaurants allowing them to see where they’re going, when David snatches the Polaroid from her, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek as she puts the camera in front of her face. Mary Margaret hides her own face behind her hand with a nervous laugh, free hand trying to grab the camera again, but David is faster and doesn’t let her.

“Come on. Enough pictures of me, I want one of you.”

“Please, don’t. There’s a reason photographers are behind the camera.”

David tsks and slaps her hand away. It falls back by her side as Mary Margaret stares at the camera and offers her most annoyed face. There a reason photographers are behind the camera, not in front of it, and it lies in insecurities, deeply rooted in her bones – that of seeing beauty in the world around her, in people and places and objects, and not seeing the same beauty when she looks in the mirror every morning.

“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?” David says, as if reading her thoughts.

They stare at each other for a very long time – she sees the truth in her girlfriend’s eyes, but there is a difference between seeing and believing, and Mary Margaret isn’t ready to cross that line yet. But David smiles kindly as she gives her the camera back, stepping closer until she brushes her lips to Mary Margaret’s.

The words come out before she realises, because it feels so right to say them now.

“I love you.”

David smiles against her mouth, kisses her once more. It’s soft and loving and warm, like a delicate embrace in the dead of the night, like coming home after a long travel abroad. It’s just a kiss; it’s so much more. “I love you too.”

 

…

 

In the end, it takes them fourteen months.

Fourteen months of lawyers and judges and court rooms, fourteen months of media speculations, of gossips and rumours. Fourteen months, an eternity, a lifetime, before the verdict. They don’t know how exactly and they don’t know who, but someone tips Archie off, an anonymous letter with Leopold’s original will as well as the forgery Regina made. The only document they couldn’t find, the only document they truly needed to make their case – it makes the difference, and the judge rules in favour of Mary Margaret.

In the end, it takes fourteen months, and Mary Margaret sighs happily when she sits behind the desk, her palms caressing the mahogany desk lovingly. She remembers doing homework on that exact same desk when she was a little girl, sitting in her father’s lap, and even remembers drawing doodles there, her mother’s fingers running through her hair.

Tears are pooling in her eyes at the memory, and she doesn’t quite manage to wipe them away when someone knocks on the door. She looks up to find David in the doorframe, smiling, arms folded on her plaid-cladded chest.

“Nice view,” she says with a nod to the window behind her.

Direct view on Central Park, which isn’t that terrible a perk, if Mary Margaret is honest. There’s worse, quite obviously.

“Indeed,” she replies, even if her eyes don’t leave David.

The other woman laughs and rolls her eyes as she enters the office and comes to sit on the desk. She grabs her phone and flips through it, ready to start working like there is not tomorrow – they may have won the war but it is only the beginning, a thousand things yet to be done for Mist Haven to work smoothly again. Still, Mary Margaret snatches the phone away from her as she stands up and steps between David’s opened legs with a smile of her own.

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

“Yes,” she replies, fingers already playing with the buttons of David’s plaid shirt. “That’s how it is.”


End file.
